“I thought you’d never ask.” She grinned broadly, revealing her unnaturally white teeth. “The scoop on your cold case. A pregnant girl bludgeoned to death and mummified in a barrel. People go crazy for that kind of thing.”
Cold case. Will bit his tongue at her misuse of the term. The victim’s body had long gone cold, of course, but the case had just been uncovered. “No comment.”
“Suit yourself, Detective. You know, some might say drunk looks good on you. How ’bout one last photo op? We’ll call this one ‘Intoxicated Cop Armed with Service Weapon’. Come to think of it, that should sound familiar.”
She raised her fancy lens and aimed it at Will. Never mind that he’d left his Glock back at the hotel, locked in the safe, for that exact reason. Guns and alcohol didn’t mix. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Just then, Amy walked up on them, recording the exchange on her phone. “You know what people would definitely go crazy for? A sleazy wannabe reporter manufacturing stories.”
Heather stared blankly, her cheeks reddening, before she turned tail.
“Wait.” Amy winked at Will before she approached Heather, her hand outstretched. “I’m going to need that camera.”
After Heather had sped off in her red Corvette, Will turned to Amy, uncertain. “What are you doing out here?”
“I needed some air. Testosterone overload, you know. Typical job hazard.”
“Well, thanks. For having my back.”
“No problem.” Amy shrugged at him. Like it meant nothing. But Will sensed the irony, felt the heat boiling beneath her cool exterior. He’d told her no and now he had to suffer the consequences. “Besides, her morning show is one step up from Jerry Springer.”
Will’s laugh clunked out as he waited for the other shoe to drop. “So, I’ll keep you posted on the barrel case.”
“That’s it?”
“What more do you want from me? It’s been two years. You called off the engagement. You left me hanging. Now, you expect me… to what? Roll over and play nice just because you suddenly decided I might be worth keeping around for the night. That’s all this was, right? A ploy to get what you want.”
“You’re wrong.” When she laid a tender hand on his bare forearm, he swallowed hard. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched him like that. Couldn’t deny it still felt good. “Wanna know why I stepped in and defended you? It’s called the thin blue line, Decker. We cops have to stick together. You forgot that once. Don’t let it happen again.”
Valley View State Prison Death Investigation Report
NAME: MARTIN REILLY
INMATE NUMBER: 22CMY2
DOB: 11/5/63
AGE: 56
SEX: M
RACE: CAUCASIAN
DEATH DATE: 3/4
AT 5:20 P.M., ON WEDNESDAY, MARCH 4th , INMATE MARTIN REILLY WAS DISCOVERED BY OFFICER MARCUS “MAC” BOON DURING A ROUTINE CHECK OF THE PAROLE BOARD HOLDING CELLS. REILLY WAS OBSERVED HANGING FROM AN EXPOSED PIPE IN THE CEILING. OFFICER BOON ACTIVATED HIS PERSONAL ALARM, CUT REILLY DOWN, AND ADMINISTERED CPR. REILLY WAS PRONOUNCED DEAD BY SAN FRANCISCO COUNTY EMERGENCY PERSONNEL AT 5:45 P.M. NO SUICIDE NOTE WAS PRESENT AT THE SCENE OR IN A SEARCH OF REILLY’S CELL.
OFFICER BOON REPORTED PLACING REILLY IN A HOLDING CELL #3 AT 5 P.M. FOLLOWING THE CONCLUSION OF HIS HEARING. HE STATED HE WAS UNAWARE OF THE PLANNED REPAIRS TO THE LEAKING PIPE WHICH HAD NOT BEEN LOGGED PER PROCEDURE. ADJACENT SINGLE CELLS WERE OCCUPIED BY OTHER INMATES WHO HAD BEEN KEPT APART FROM REILLY DUE TO THEIR ASSOCIATION WITH HIS FORMER GANG, FROM WHICH HE HAD DEBRIEFED.
DAVID PLUNKETT, CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER FOR THE COUNTY OF SAN FRANCISCO, CONDUCTED AN AUTOPSY AND DEATH INVESTIGATION PER THE REQUEST OF THE DECEDENT’S FAMILY ON BEHALF OF VALLEY VIEW STATE PRISON.
THE INQUIRY AND INVESTIGATION REVEALED THAT THE DECEDENT DIED AS FOLLOWS:
MANNER OF DEATH: SUICIDE
CAUSE OF DEATH: ASPHYXIATION BY LIGATURE
MOTIVE: DEPRESSION SECONDARY TO LONG TERM INCARCERATION
BASED ON AN ANALYSIS OF THE SCENE, THE LIGATURE WAS FASHIONED FROM THE CUT PORTION OF A PRISON ISSUED BEDSHEET. THE LIGATURE MEASURED 2 X 8.5 FEET AND MATCHED AN EXTRA SHEET FOUND IN REILLY’S CELL. PRISON LAUNDRY CONFIRMED REILLY HAD BEEN ISSUED AN ADDITIONAL BEDSHEET TWO DAYS PRIOR.
DECEDENT APPEARS TO HAVE ACCESSED THE PIPE BY STANDING ON THE EDGE OF THE TOILET. DECEDENT LOOPED THE FREE END OVER THE PIPE, THEN SECURED THE LIGATURE AROUND HIS NECK WITH A SLIP KNOT. ONCE THE APPARATUS WAS IN PLACE, DEATH LIKELY OCCURRED WITHIN THREE TO FIVE MINUTES.
SCRATCHES ON THE DECEDENT’S NECK WERE JUDGED TO BE SELF-INFLICTED. AN ABRASION ON THE DECEDENT’S FOREHEAD WAS CONSISTENT WITH BUMPING THE HEAD AGAINST A HARD OBJECT SUCH AS THE EXPOSED METAL PIPE IN THE HOLDING CELL.
DECEDENT’S BODY TO BE TRANSFERRED TO REDWOOD MEMORIAL FUNERAL HOME PER FAMILY’S REQUEST.
Twenty-Two
Olivia slammed her phone against the sofa, disgusted. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she’d stayed half-asleep. Red-eyed tossing and turning on her sister’s futon seemed preferable to the abomination of a death investigation report that had greeted her the moment she’d opened her inbox.
The email had come addressed from Warden Ochoa herself, along with the three little words that sounded a lot like a death knell. Per your request.
With all that Olivia had witnessed working at Crescent Bay under the watchful eye of Warden Blevins, she should have known Valley View would be no different. Most days, it was hard to tell the good guys from the bad.
“You okay out here?” Emily poked her head out of the bathroom, her wet hair twisted in a towel on her head.
“Plunkett ruled it a suicide.”
Emily’s face fell. Her feet still damp from the shower, she left prints on the hardwood as she joined Olivia on the sofa. “Well, maybe he’s right. I know you don’t want to hear that, but—”
“No, Em. He’s not right.” Olivia retrieved her phone and stabbed at the screen, holding it out for her sister to see. “A bump on his head from hitting the pipe? That makes no sense.”
“I’m just saying, this part seems accurate.” Em pointed to the motive. “He felt so ashamed about how his life turned out. That parole denial was probably devastating for him.”
“But he didn’t know how the hearing would turn out. Why would he rip up his bedsheet and take the chance of being caught with it? For all he knew, he could’ve gotten a parole date.”
Emily raised her eyebrows, disbelieving. “How many times have you told me, nobody gets out on their first try?”
“Fine. But Plunkett is either incompetent or corrupt, and I’m going to prove it. The Oaktown Boys are behind this. The report even said that Oaktown members were in the adjacent cells.”
“You always do this, you know? When Mom died, you threw yourself into work at the prison. I barely saw you. Now you’re getting caught up in this conspiracy theory rather than focusing on what’s really important.”
“And what’s that? What could be more important than figuring out what happened to Dad?”
“Dealing with your feelings, for one. You are a shrink, aren’t you?”
Olivia sighed in frustration. “You weren’t there that day at the Double Rock. You didn’t see what I saw. The Oaktown Boys killed our father a long time ago. On the day he agreed to take the rap for a murder he didn’t commit. I’ve had twenty-seven years to deal with my feelings, because all that time he’s been dying. This so-called suicide was just the last nail in his coffin.”
Em stood up and padded back to the bathroom, stopping when she reached the door. “I’m driving back to Fog Harbor tonight. With or without you. I want to be there when Dad’s body arrives. He deserves that much.”
Olivia nodded. “I’ll be ready.” Sometimes big sisters had to go along to get along, but she had no intention of giving up.
She dressed in a hurry, pulled her hair into a ponytail and brushed her teeth in the kitchen sink. No time for breakfast, so a few bites of the
leftover pizza she scavenged from Em’s fridge would have to do for now. Before she headed out the door, she texted Deck to meet up with her about the clue she’d spotted in one of Shelby’s photos.
Be at the Double Rock in thirty minutes.
Twenty-Three
Will floated down the stairs into the gossamer dark. He knew exactly what it looked like down there, in the belly of the basement, even though he couldn’t see his own hands in front of him. On the shelf to his right, he felt the worn leather of his childhood baseball glove. The tail of an old kite tickled his face. His knee bumped against the solid antique trunk stuffed full with his mother’s clothing that his father never had thrown out.
Will didn’t know how he’d come to be there or why, only that he had to keep moving toward the center of the room. Toward the string that dangled down like a fishing line into the abyss. Pulling it felt essential. If he pulled it, he would see. He would know.
Paralyzed by a sickening dread, Will stopped when he reached the string. He forced himself to reach into the pitch-blackness above him, feeling for the cord. He gave it a solid tug.
The light popped on, then off again, like a camera flash, briefly revealing the horror around him, before plunging him back into darkness. Not a trunk, but a barrel. Not a kite tail, but a long strand of dark hair. Not a baseball glove resting atop the shelf, but the mummified head of a woman.
Not just any woman. Shelby.
He pulled the cord, looked again. Amy.
Again. His mother.
Terrified, he jerked the cord once more, a scream bursting from his throat as Olivia’s dead eyes looked back at him.
Will sat bolt upright, his T-shirt drenched in sweat. A sliver of daylight shone through the cheap motel curtains, but he fumbled for the light switch anyway. Then for his phone, its shrill ring doing nothing to stop his heart racing.
Before he answered JB’s call, he spotted Olivia’s text.
“Hey, partner. What’s up?”
Will needed some good news. Between the cheap motel sheets, the pancake-flat pillow, and the couple arguing and making up in the room next door, he’d barely slept. And after he’d finally dozed off, his warped brain still couldn’t give it a rest. Olivia would probably tell him it all meant something. That his twisted dream was a pit stop on the road to his subconscious. Which meant his subconscious was royally screwed up.
“You sound half-asleep, City Boy. Have you solved our case yet?”
Will croaked out a groggy laugh, swinging his feet out of the bed and onto the carpet.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Bleary-eyed, he gazed into the dresser mirror as JB droned on.
“Tammy and I had plans to stay at a little B&B last night. Take Princess for a walk on the beach, get some sand between my toes. Hell, maybe even channel my inner Burt Lancaster. You ever seen that old movie, From Here to Eternity?”
Will grimaced, imagining JB dropping to his knees on a beach towel with the iconic bombshell Deborah Kerr.
“But guess where I spent my evening? At the station. Alone. Mining the missing persons’ database for our girl, Shelby. You know what I found? Zero. Zilch. Nada. There wasn’t a single Shelby matching our description and time frame.”
“Olivia might have a lead. She spotted a clue in one of the photos. I’m supposed to meet her in…” Will checked the motel clock, glanced down at the message on his screen. “Shit. Fifteen minutes.”
“Olivia? As in your schoolboy crush, Olivia? Make sure you smell good.”
Groaning, Will tucked the phone against his cheek and tugged on his jeans. “Gotta run, man. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something. Why don’t you get some sun like you planned?”
“Now you’re talkin’. Tammy bought herself a slinky halter top swimsuit just like—”
Will shoved his silenced phone in his pocket. Changed his shirt. Ran a careless hand through his hair.
Securing his Glock in his waistband, he paused at the door—damn JB—and took a whiff of his armpit.
A quick birdbath and two swipes of deodorant, he headed out, smelling like a rose. Or, according to the manufacturer, leather and sandalwood with earthy undertones.
Twenty-Four
Miss Pearl poured three steaming cups of coffee. Her hands trembled as she set the mugs carefully on her kitchen table. Olivia sipped hers a little too fast, desperate for a caffeine buzz. Judging by Deck’s bed hair and the dark circles under his eyes, he needed it just as badly. Although—she leaned in—he smelled like he’d had time for a shower.
“Can I interest either one of you in a chocolate chip cookie?”
Deck raised his hand unapologetically.
Olivia laughed and shook her head at him. “It’s seven thirty in the morning.”
“And?”
“It’s never too early for chocolate.” Miss Pearl deposited two cookies on a small plate and placed it in front of him.
“Fair warning.” Olivia lowered her voice. Mostly to bring Deck closer. “Those things are seriously habit-forming.”
He broke off the edge and popped it in his mouth, grinning. “What can I say? I live on the edge.”
Miss Pearl joined them at the table, lowering herself to the seat slowly, effortfully. Her old bones practically creaked as she arranged them beneath her. She hadn’t seemed surprised to see Olivia at her door, welcoming them both inside as if they belonged at the Double Rock. As if Olivia had never left.
“Is Scott here?” Olivia cut her eyes down the hallway. The closed door at the end left her unsettled.
“That boy hasn’t dragged himself out of bed before noon since Termite dropped him off here. Teenagers these days. If it doesn’t have a screen and an on switch, they’ve got no use for it.”
“How long has he lived with you?” Olivia asked.
“Off and on for his whole life.” Miss Pearl shook her head, whispered. “His mom took off when he was a baby. We haven’t seen her since. Now he’s stuck with Termite for a daddy.”
“Must be tough.” Olivia could relate. But for all her parents’ flaws, they’d never abandoned her. No wonder Scott had a bad attitude.
Deck devoured the last bite of his cookie and produced a single photograph from the folder on the table. “Pearl, I’d like you to take a look at this for me. It’s related to a case I’m working. See if there’s anything you recognize.”
Miss Pearl squinted at the mundane subject of the photo—a large chest of drawers in the cabin’s bedroom. The angle of the photo made Olivia suspect Shelby had been lying on the bed when she’d taken it. On the smooth redwood surface, a tube of lipstick stood guard over a beat-up paperback book, the pages fat and parched from the sun. The only other item visible, a homemade doll with yellow button eyes.
“Olivia, dear, would you mind fetching my magnifying glass? It’s on the coffee table, right next to the newspaper. Lately, I can’t even read the obituaries without it. I suppose I should be thankful for that. Most everybody dying is younger than me.”
Miss Pearl’s eyes widened once she studied the photo under the lens. “That sure does look like one of my Mary Jane dolls. Olivia had one. I made them for a lot of little girls in the building.”
“Starting when?” Deck asked.
“Oh my goodness. When did I start?” Miss Pearl tapped her head, as if she could shake loose the rusty memories. Then, her eyes got shiny, and she wiped at them with a napkin. “Well, I started sewing just after the accident. The one that took my Melvin and our daughter, Mary. She was only five years old. That was back in ’75. I made those dolls in her honor, called them all Mary Jane. I used the yellow buttons because that was her favorite color.”
Olivia rubbed Miss Pearl’s knobby shoulder. It felt as fragile as an eggshell beneath her fingers. “You never told me that story.”
“It took me a long time before I could talk about it. But sewing those dolls saved my life. It gave me a purpose to see all you girls so happy.”
“Do you remember
a girl named Shelby?” Deck asked, pointing back to the photo. “She might’ve lived here in the early eighties. I think it’s her doll in the picture.”
“Shelby. Shelby. Shelby.” Miss Pearl said the name aloud a few times, before she clapped her hands together. “Shelby Mayfield. She and her mama lived here. Her brother too. Apartment K, if I remember correctly. They moved out when Shelby was yay-high. Never heard from them again.”
“What did Shelby look like?”
“Cute little thing. Blonde hair, big brown eyes. Puppy dog eyes, I used to call ’em.”
Deck nodded as he jotted notes on a pad.
“Did Shelby get herself mixed up in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “But you’ve been a big help. Do you have an extra Mary Jane doll we could take with us?”
Miss Pearl lit up at Deck’s question, sprang out of her seat. She started down the hallway. “Come with me. I’ll let you pick the one you want. But we may have to wake the sleeping dragon.”
Olivia tiptoed inside the cave of the bedroom. With its sunshine-yellow walls, she suspected it had once belonged to Mary. Now, Scott had claimed it as his own, sullying it with the debris of his life—dirty clothing, sneakers, cigarette butts.
Scott lay, unmoving, in the center of the bed, a frilly pink comforter tangled around his legs. A brand-new Oaktown tattoo flamed, red and raised, on his bicep. Same as his father’s. Looking at it, Olivia felt inexplicably sad for him.
Miss Pearl raised a finger to her lips and pointed to the white bookcase, lined end to end with Mary Jane dolls. Beneath their yarn hair, their yellow button eyes seemed to stare in judgment.
Your choice, Miss Pearl mouthed.
Her Perfect Bones: A totally addictive mystery and suspense novel Page 10
